


Write Ian Gallagher Over My Fuckin’ Knuckles

by ronans



Series: Prompts [27]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Drunkenness, Fluff, M/M, Tattoos, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:48:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3566867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronans/pseuds/ronans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Prompt:</strong> Mickey gets an Ian tattoo - <a href="http://southsidemilkovich.tumblr.com/post/113940109944/oooooh-i-also-love-a-mickey-gets-an-ian-tattoo">shamelesskyblue67</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Write Ian Gallagher Over My Fuckin’ Knuckles

Mickey honestly hadn’t meant to get so trashed in the middle of the day, but Iggy always manages to push things too far. It’s a shame that Mickey’s never sober enough to get angry at him for it.

‘Shit,’ Mickey grumbles before giggling.

Iggy slaps him on the back. ‘Pre’ sure we drank the Alibi dry.’

‘What fucking time is it?’ Mickey asks, still laughing as they trip out of the door of the bar. He’s immediately assaulted with sunrays, and he thinks he should feel stupid about getting drunk this early on in the afternoon, but he’s still running high on the endless supply of terrible jokes streaming out of his brother’s mouth.

‘S’fuckin’ hair past a freckle.’

Mickey lets out a disgusted moan and punches Iggy in the side. ‘Every fucking time you say that I’mma make sure you get another fuckin’ year down in Hell.’

‘Yo, Mick, look,’ Iggy mutters, ignoring him in favour of pointing up at a shop sign as they pass it.

‘Huh?’ Mickey squints in the vague direction of where Iggy’s aiming and then starts to beam. ‘What, you not qualified to do your own tattoos anymore?’

Iggy rolls his eyes and shoves Mickey before ambling over to the meshed parlour door. ‘C’mon.’

Mickey messily wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and then follows Iggy inside. The place is pretty unsanitary looking, but that’s not seemed to faze Iggy. And, anyway, the tattoos they’ve already had done have been the product of a dirty sewing needle and a tube of pen ink. It’s not like they’re picky.

Iggy nods at the man at the desk and then runs his fingers over the designs hung up on the grotty, crumbling walls.

‘Hey, guys, you lookin’ for anything in particular?’ Mickey smiles at the cautious tone. He could probably smell the liquor wafting off them from even before they’d entered the building.

Mickey starts to shake his head in response before his gaze lands on a name written in fancy lettering on one of the display boards.

‘That one,’ he says, jabbing his finger at the name. _Sasha_.

Tattoo guy frowns and glances behind him. ‘You’re just… You want a name?’

Mickey nods enthusiastically and starts to unbutton his shirt. ‘Want _Ian_. ‘Cross my heart.’

Iggy guffaws and smacks his forehead against the wall with the force of it, rubbing the sore spot afterwards.

‘Woah, woah, hold on.’ The tattoo artist darts his hands out over the counter to stop Mickey from entirely divesting of his shirt.

‘What?’                                                     

‘Man, there’s no way I’m inking you when you’re this fucked,’ the guy says, basically laughing in Mickey’s face.

Mickey scowls because _when the fuck_ had a tattoo parlour this shady turned down such easy money? When had that become a rule?

‘The fuck you mean you’re not gonna do this for me?’

The man rolls his eyes and leans his forearms on the counter. ‘Okay, one, because it’s the middle of the afternoon and you’re blind drunk; that usually means a bad break up, or the start of a midlife crisis. And you don’t look old enough to be havin’ one of those,’ he begins to list off, pointing out his fingers as he goes. ‘Two, that’s a dude’s name.’

Mickey waits for him to elaborate, but all he does is raise his eyebrows meaningfully. ‘So fuckin’ what?’

‘You’re seriously getting a guy’s name tattooed on your chest? _You_?’ Another pointed stare and Mickey’s alcohol soaked mind finally catches on.

‘I’m fuckin’ _gay_.’

Iggy bursts out laughing behind him again, clutching his stomach. Mickey smirks drunkenly at his brother’s reaction and then leans forward on the counter, getting right up in the tattoo artist’s face.

‘Listen here…’ he squints at the name embroidered on the man’s shirt. ‘… _Fitch_.’

‘Oh my god.’

Mickey stabs a finger weakly against guy’s chest. ‘I want my fuckin’ boyfriend’s name written- written over my _goddamn fuckin’ heart_. You hearin’ me? And I want it there to-fucking-day.’

‘Jesus Christ, no!’ he chuckles, shoving Mickey’s hand away. ‘Come back when you’re sober, _then_ we’ll see.’

Mickey squares his shoulders and glares daggers at the other man. ‘Okay, instead, then,’ he mutters, nodding slowly as he thinks his new idea over. ‘Okay, yeah, write _Ian Gallagher_ over my fuckin’ knuckles.’

His eyebrows lift and he eyes Mickey’s already tattooed hands as he slaps his palms onto the counter. ‘Uh… _No_.’

Mickey throws his arms up in the air. ‘What, why?!’

‘One-‘

‘You’re doin’ that fuckin’ list thing again? C’mon, Iggy, let’s fuckin’… fuckin’ do this ourselves.’

Mickey doesn’t even wait to listen to the tattoo artist’s laughter as he grabs the collar of his brother’s shirt and stumbles out of the shop.

Once he finally gets home, it takes him about two minutes to find his bed instead of their homemade tattoo kit, and for him to then fall asleep.

*

‘Hey, look who’s still alive.’

Mickey lets out a long groan and grips his head tightly. He’s pretty sure someone’s shacked up in his brain and started a kicking contest against the walls of his skull.

‘You’ve been asleep forever,’ Ian snickers, carding his hand through Mickey’s hair. The action feels nice, and Mickey leans into it, a tiny, contented smile forming on his lips.

‘Wh- time s’it?’ Mickey croaks, rolling over to rest his head against the side of Ian’s thigh. He feels Ian lean over him to look at the alarm clock on Mickey’s side of the bed.

‘Twelve thirty six,’ Ian replies. Mickey’s eyes fly open in alarm before he’s forced to close them again against the afternoon light in the room. It’s _so much worse and stronger_ than the day before.

‘The fuck?’

‘Yep. According to Iggy, you’ve been out for nearly a whole day.’

‘Shit… Didn’t know I drank so much.’

‘Got a call from Veronica about exactly how much you had,’ Ian says, continuing to comb through Mickey’s hair. Mickey shifts so his head’s completely in his boyfriend’s lap. ‘She said to make sure I put a sick bucket next to the bed.’

‘Did I use it?’

Ian laughs. ‘You don’t remember?’

He sighs and sits up, rubbing at his eyes with his fingertips. ‘No… Fuck.’

Ian starts rattling off some words that don’t even get a chance for Mickey to process because his hand’s flying up to his chest as his throat clogs up with sudden panic. Thankfully, his chest’s blissfully pain free.

‘Mick?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Did you hear any of that?’ Ian sighs, gaze flitting over Mickey’s face. ‘You okay?’

‘I’m fine, man.’

‘Want me to get you some water and aspirin?’

Mickey smiles and nods slowly. ‘Thanks.’

‘Fuck, you actually said thank you. Did you drink away your delightful hostility?’

‘Fuck off,’ Mickey mutters through a grin. Ian runs his hand down Mickey’s arm and then gets up off the bed to retrieve Mickey’s drink and tablets.

As he watches his boyfriend go, Mickey starts rubbing at the unblemished skin over the fabric of his t-shirt. He purses his lips and thinks back to that feeling in his gut – from what he can remember – that had sprung up when his mind had landed on getting Ian’s name tattooed being a good idea.

He’s sober now - well, as sober as he can be after a day out drinking with his brother - and the idea still niggles at his brain even after he's obviated his headache with aspirin and Ian’s body heat. It roots itself there and grows over the next few days until he knows he can’t take it for too much longer.

He loves Ian. Like, a fucking _lot_. He wants Ian to know just how much. And though they might not make it, and it’s permanent, and it’s probably stupid… Mickey _wants_ it. He’d get Ian’s name tattooed all over his soul if he could, he’s in that fucking deep.

It’s just a case of bringing it up with the man himself, because like hell is he going to go get it done sober without some sort of discussion with the guy who’s name’s going to be attached to Mickey’s body for the rest of his life.

*

‘Ian, you got a minute?’

Ian looks up from where he’d been resting against the kitchen counter, idly reading a magazine that had been amongst the mail Iggy and Colin had stolen from a random North Side apartment complex. He grins at Mickey as he enters the kitchen and immediately shuts the magazine.

‘Sure. What’s goin’ on?’

Without dressing it up, Mickey just decides to share. ‘Thinkin’ about getting a tattoo.’

Ian lifts his eyebrows and smiles. ‘Cool.’ He shoves himself off the counter and strolls over to Mickey, picking up both of his hands gently and staring down at them, every now and then swiping his thumb over the knuckles. Mickey scoffs and rolls his eyes, shifting his eyes away to play it off like this tenderness isn’t affecting him. _It fucking is, though_. ‘I love your tattoos…’

Mickey shuts his eyes and sighs, leaning a little further into Ian’s space and enjoying the light brushes of the pad of Ian’s thumb. _Christ, focus_.

‘Yeah, so…’

Ian flicks his eyes up to meet Mickey’s gaze then and Mickey’s just absolutely fucking lost in a sea of green and blue and colours that he probably doesn’t even know the names of. ‘You getting Iggy to do it? Or… a cousin? I dunno, can’t keep up with who’s who ‘round here.’

The corner of Mickey’s mouth quirks up. ‘Nah… Thinkin’ ‘bout going to an actual tattoo… place this time.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

Ian smiles again and lets their hands drop between them. ‘That costs money, Mickey.’

Mickey rolls his eyes again. ‘Like you’re gonna miss fifty bucks or so.’

‘Oh, _I’m_ paying for it?’ Ian raises an eyebrow and stares Mickey down as he bites his lip.

‘No… But…’

‘What’s the tattoo gonna be of?’

‘Uh… If the dick doesn’t mess it the fuck up someway… Your name…’

Ian looks completely floored by that, eyes wide and mouth open slightly. ‘What?’

‘I wanna get your fuckin’ name tattooed on my chest, ‘kay?’

For an agonizing second, Mickey thinks Ian’s going to freak out and walk off. But then he lets out a breathy chuckle and shakes his head. ‘Really?’

Mickey can feel his cheeks heating. ‘Yep, really.’

‘That’s… so sweet, what the fuck?’ Ian draws his eyebrows together and continues to stare at Mickey.

‘Shut the fuck up, I just… want to do it, alright?’ Mickey shrugs it off, but Ian inclines forward slightly to press their lips together. Mickey accepts it (even lifts his hand up to cup the side of Ian’s face) because, obviously, when the hell is he going to not want to kiss Ian? When they break apart, Ian starts to chew on his bottom lip.

‘You’re serious about this?’

Somehow Mickey picks up that Ian’s not just talking about the tattoo anymore. He bobs his head and offers a small smile. Ian’s face lights up and he retakes Mickey’s hand, practically yanking him out of the front door and into the late summer air.

‘Jesus, Ian, slow the fuck down. We got all the fucking time in the world.’

‘No we don’t; all businesses have a closing time, Mickey.’

‘Yeah, except twenty four hour superstores,’ Mickey grumps back, trailing after Ian, but still linked to him by their intertwined fingers.

Ian sounds exasperated when he replies. ‘You can’t get a tattoo at a Walmart.’

‘M’sure Raul would give you one ‘round the back of the store.’

‘With a blood soaked fucking needle.’

*

If Mickey takes Ian’s hand just before the tip of the needle makes contact with his skin, that’s his business, and the asshole who’s finally agreed to ink him shouldn’t be fucking smirking about it.

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm still taking prompts until the end of March :)](http://southsidemilkovich.tumblr.com)


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